I like the implication of what it means to feed a partner.
I'm keeping you fat. You may enjoy it, but you don't have any say in the matter. As long as you are with me, something as personal as your own body is under my control.
Look at us in public. How could a couple live under the same roof and have such a dramatic difference in appearance. Watching you waddle and pant to move about. Unquestioning the food I hand to you. It's damning of me. It's so purposefully taboo.
There's a senseless nature to it. You have to eat what I place in front of you... for no reason other than I demand it. It's logic flipped on its head. You could simply choose to not overeat. You'd probably have a more fulfilling life. More autonomy, more freedom.
Instead, you listen to these imaginary consequences of not finishing your food. Somehow the perils of overeating are drowned out by my actions. Another outgrown pair of pants. Another broken chair. Avoiding getting up. The confusion of why it's suddenly so... hard... to rock yourself out of bed.
But I am keeping you fat. Very deliberately.